


Those Distant Bells

by rustyHalo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:54:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustyHalo/pseuds/rustyHalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You blink and sigh, wrenching yourself away from the black, rusty gate. Every step feels leaden, and you'd give anything to not go back here. But this is your home.</p>
<p>This <i>was</i> your home.</p>
<p>Now it's not.</p>
<p>Not since he left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Distant Bells

**Author's Note:**

> So I made a thing. It's a shit thing though. I wrote it around the devil's hour and I know it's terrible like plot holes and inconsistencies and all that shit. I am sorry I am really bad right now!!! Who knew writing a paper for polisci and watching Community after would result to an angst shit thing? No one. That's who. I am all the gomens for this sad.
> 
> And due to this being a songfic, I advise you listen to Those Distant Bells by Snow Patrol from the album Fallen Empires.

_The car crunches gravel_  
And the wind licks at you  
This dark spell you're under  
Has you dumbstruck by the gate 

You park your car right in front of the door. You take your keys out of the engine and slide out of the vehicle. Walking slowly towards the gate, you glance at the left window of the second floor, the window of your bedroom.

There's no light turned on, as you expected, but you're not below wishing, right?

You twist the iron chains around the gate once, twice, and lock it. You stand there for a little while longer, a hand clutching the bar so tight your knuckles are white.

You stare into the distance, as far as you can see down the road. There's a lamp post at the intersection, but the trees are getting to it. The trees are growing uncontrollably, and they're starting to cover the path to your house as well.

It's only around six in the evening but it's dark as night, only more ominous. You only get that feel from the atmosphere and the clouds when they're black and heavy and slowly drifting over you. A promise of rain hangs heavily in the air.

It's getting really chilly now. Autumn is creeping into the state and up your spine. You shudder once but don't budge to go inside. Not yet. You stare at the lamp post some more, as if willing something to step out from behind it and walk to your gate.

No such luck.

_And it hurts every muscle_  
Just to walk back to the house  
Now this home that you both made  
It looks haunted from the yard 

You blink and sigh, wrenching yourself away from the black, rusty gate. Every step feels leaden, and you'd give anything to not go back here. But this is your home.

This _was_ your home.

Now it's not.

Not since he left.

You shake the thought away and close the chipped door behind you. Its hinges squeak and comply far too easily, and it could fall off any second, but it doesn't.

You switch on the hall lights.

You hang your red coat on the hook beside the switch and walk down the hall into the living room. Flipping on the TV, you run a hand through your blonde, uncombed hair and inhale deeply.

You step to the window and move the curtains aside.

You're met with the view of your front yard, where you just were moments ago. The wind forces orange leaves up into the air and around the house. All the yard contains are your car, parked carelessly in front of the door, a few flower beds with wilted begonias and gladioli and daisies, a dead old tree and John's broken bike. It's been there for a while. You never have time to move it, nor repair it. You've let it rust there, slowly becoming one with the gate.

On the whole, the place looks like a haunted house.

You could still remember when you and John just bought this place. All bright, barn house colors outside and pale pastels on the wallpaper with the vintage design. He tended to those flowers outside when they were alive. He hung a tire swing on the tree. He rode the bike back and forth along the path.

You're going overboard with the past tense. But that's why we have that, right? To use. To describe what used to be.

_You can hear those distant bells_  
And you know they'll never leave  
It's like your church is crying out  
Like the wolf calls to her young 

The creepy shit of a grandfather clock beside the bookshelf chimes six times. Its noise booms around the living room, to be heard around the house by nothing but the furniture, and you.

You switch channels to cartoon reruns and let the noise fill your house instead. It's difficult to be alone. It drives you insane.

You head into the kitchen and turn on a light.

You're surprised that you insist on washing all dishes and keeping the house clean. You're Dave Strider. You don't _do_ clean. But there's no one to look out for you now. Only you. Just you.

You suppose you knew that, deep inside, that in the end, you'll have no one else to rely on but yourself. But you didn't want to believe it. You never wanted to. You denied that voice inside, the one whispering to you every night since you were young.

_"You're alone. You're all alone. You'll always be alone. That's all you'll ever be."_

The voice speaks again this time.

You open the door of the fridge and take out last night's left-overs. You toss it into the microwave and heat it up. You sit at the round table, big enough for four people, used often by two, but now occupied by just one.

_And the dark never enters_  
But it also never leaves  
And this spark that he gave you  
Is just an ember, all but out 

You stare at the white, painted-on tiles of the kitchen floor. There's always a looming air of despair over you. It's there, you can almost feel it, but just so.

Maybe you've finally grown numb.

Then, is this how it is? To feel numb? Is it numbness that stabs you every morning when you wake up, and every time you go to sleep (or tried to, just try, always try, and if the bags under your eyes under your shades are any evidence that you did try, if they can garner you awards, then you'll damn take them, it's better than nothing, probably better than this)? Is it numbness that jolts you awake at work, when you nod off on the job, or that which shocks you into a stupor in the middle of the cereal aisle, reaching for the Cocoa Pebbles that John so eats and loves, when you realize he's not there anymore? Is it numbness that stuns you when you realize that he will never be back, that he's fed up, he's tired, he needs to be away?

Is that numbness? The numbness that they say will simply let you not care anymore?

This doesn't feel like numbness to you, then. You're not numb. It's either that or they lied to you again.

_If he'd one eye on the exit_  
Oh, you never would have known  
Until he drove off in the darkness  
Like some slowly fading song 

The microwave's dinged a minute ago, but who cares if the food gets cold? Only John does. And is he here?

He bailed on you years ago, on a snowy February night (was it two? Five? Seven years ago?). He up and went away, taking all his things, all his smiles, all his laughs, all his love with him.

He left you with nothing.

What did you do to let him leave like that, with tears in his eyes and down his face and in your shirt?

That you cheated was one thing.

That she was pregnant was the other.

That you didn't care for her and loved only him, and that she had to show up with a large belly on a snowy night was what lit him up, burning like a raging fire, flaming, furious, devouring you and leaving nothing but searing pain across your cheek and in your chest.

You could have worked it out. You could have made things right. And you said sorry. But when you said she meant nothing, the child meant nothing, only he did?

There's broken glass in the hall, a torn picture from an album, water all over the table. There's blood where you tried to pick up the glass so as to not hurt John when he walks past, and she's sobbing at the threshold, screaming at you, and he's crying.

John argued that if she meant nothing, then why the fuck did you bang her? The child meant nothing? Well, too bad, Dave, that was your decision and you need to man up and face that responsibility! John was pissed at the cheating, but disregarding that? That was a life, a kid, and how could he live with someone so apathetic and heartless?

You know he's hurt by the cheating.

You know he hates it.

After you asked him to marry you? After fourteen years of friendship, and eight years of love? After all that time reassuring him he was the only one, the only one for you? After knowing he's fragile as stained glass, after filling him with nothing but good memories, after letting him trust you with everything?

He went and packed everything he had in your room. He left everything else. You said sorry, you pulled him close and gripped his shirt, you ran after him as he went into his car and drove away and vanished from your life forever.

_You can hear those distant bells_

You leave the kitchen and trudge through the John-filled house, head upstairs, shuffling into your bedroom. You see him everywhere, even now, in the paint-smudged wall and on the ratty old couch.

_And you know they'll never leave_

You take off your shoes and socks and shirt and pants, leaving you in nothing but boxers.

_It's like your church is crying out_

It's cold as you plug the cheesy lava lamp and turn it on.

_Like the wolf calls to her young_

You slide under the blankets and take off your shades.

_You can hear those distant bells_

The voice is speaking again, getting louder in your head.

_And you know they'll never leave_

Let it out, let him out, let the voice out of the cage you put it in, let him speak.

_It's like your church is crying out_

You pull the drawer open, and the tears soak the pillow already.

_Like the wolf calls to her young_

You take a gun out.

A life without John is not a life. Not anymore. Not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I know the cheating thing seems a little shallow for the whole John-leaving-thing but I couldn't think of anything else that would force John to leave. I love my babies, really, I do. I just like Sadstucking as well. Gomens!!!!


End file.
